


Blue Jeans

by dorlgirl



Series: December Drabbles [8]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Drabble, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-04 02:20:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorlgirl/pseuds/dorlgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek can be an unmitigated dick. He can also be the best partner a boy could ask for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue Jeans

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from [Blue Jeans](http://youtu.be/JRWox-i6aAk) by Lana Del Rey.
> 
> I wrote this shortly after finally shaking a migraine that had been plaguing me, so the song didn't inspire the story. It just happened to be playing when I started to write. Can you tell I wish I had a Derek of my own?

There are days when Derek is an unmitigated dick. Days where he huffs and puffs and threatens to rip peoples’ heads off and spit down their throats. Stiles thinks it’d be funny if Derek wasn’t completely sincere in his threats. Thankfully, he really only uses graphic images like that when dealing with jackoff hunters who refuse to follow the Argents’ new code, and rogue Alphas that swagger into Beacon Hills and make some noise about taking over Scott and Derek’s jointly ruled territory. 

Unfortunately, those days when Derek has to be a tool don’t end after successfully threatening whatever douchenozzle deserved it. He brings that shit home with him, and Stiles, ever the dedicated and doting husband, has to fucking deal with Derek’s asshole side. It’s never easy, and it’s never pretty. It’s kind of the reason they have a small apartment setup in the basement. They both make use of it, so it’s not like just one or the other of them gets relegated to the proverbial doghouse (and Stiles so calls it that just to rile Asswolf up). It gives them the distance and space they both occasionally need without making it seem like they’re walking out on each other. And it smells like them both, so they can both pull comfort from that and calm themselves down and realize what a twatwaffle they were and do the hang-dog walk of shame up the creaky basement steps to apologize and finally move on to the always fantastic (and often athletic) make up sex.

There are also days when Derek is the most thoughtful, considerate, loving, committed partner a boy could ask for. Days where Stiles is sad for no reason, or cranky for a stupid reason, or happy just because. Days where Derek gives Stiles soft kisses and nuzzles into his throat just to breathe him in, which still gives Stiles a little happy-wriggly-puppy feeling; then all he wants to do is push closer to Derek, squeeze him a bit tighter, make sure Derek knows how much he loves him.

Stiles thinks even the days he has these fucking migraines are pretty damn awesome, despite the throbbing and the spinning and the inability to open his eyes without the light digging into this eyeballs with its evil little needles that try to claw through his ocular cavity and into his brain so it can unravel his nerve endings strand by strand. Days where his meds just don’t cut it, and he spends half his time swallowing bile back, and the other half singing in the porcelain pavilion to revisit his last meal, which just makes his head hurt even more. That really shouldn’t even be possible when things reach that level, but it always happens, and the whole vicious cycle just. Won’t. Stop.

Where is the awesome in those days? It’s in the way Derek keeps a cool washcloth on the back of Stiles’s neck, his other hand resting on Stiles’s lower back, under his softest and least chafing sleep shirt because even his skin feels raw when a migraine gets this bad. That hand on Stiles’s back rubs ever-so-soft circles over his skin, drawing away as much of the pain as he can. It’s never all of it, because of COURSE even magic werewolf pain drains can’t stop one of these fuckers once they get going. But Derek does everything he can to help his husband through the pain.

And when Stiles just can’t vomit any more, and the Zofran is dissolving under his tongue, and his skin is clammy and numb but still stings with every twitch and every ragged breath, Derek picks him up so carefully, so gently, and walks so slowly back to their bedroom, making sure to not jostle him. He tucks Stiles into bed, puts a fresh cold compress over his eyes, and makes sure a clean bucket is available in case the nausea pills don’t work in time, and that there is a cold glass of water within easy reach. He doesn’t get into bed with Stiles, because the last thing he needs is the bed moving under him so soon after his stomach finally started to settle. Instead, Derek sits on the floor, one hand under the blankets, resting lightly on Stiles ankle, continually drawing the hardest edges of the pain away. 

These moments are when Stiles gets thankful that his migraines don’t include sensitivity to sound. Because this is when Derek sings to him. Everything from nursery rhymes to bawdy drinking songs, madrigals to classic blues to catchy pop songs. And he talks. About every little boring subject that comes to mind. Derek sings and talks until Stiles can finally fall asleep and let his body bounce back from the evilness that invaded his head.

Days like those are when Stiles falls even more in love with Derek, and when he finally surfaces into consciousness again, he makes sure to tell Derek exactly how much he means to Stiles. 

In graphic detail. 

Usually followed by fantastic and athletic sex.


End file.
